


Sometimes Goodbye Is Better Than See You Soon

by universe



Category: Leverage
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Love from afar, Postcards, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-29
Updated: 2011-05-29
Packaged: 2017-10-19 21:32:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/205434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/universe/pseuds/universe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Her first postcard came from Rome.</i> Another life that could have been.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sometimes Goodbye Is Better Than See You Soon

Her first postcard came from Rome.

She had sent it to his office, no return address on it, not even a signature, but he knew she’d only be staying in the most expensive of places. It was a typical tourist postcard, “the weather is lovely”, “I just had dinner in this little place right in front of the Pantheon” and “wish you were here…”

He was on his way to Greece anyway, so he made a quick call to reroute his New York—Paris—Athens flight through Rome instead.

Upon his arrival, she was exactly where he expected, calmly sipping a cup of coffee. Admittedly, her lack of surprise when he sat down next to her was a little disappointing, but the corners of her mouth quirked up briefly, and he’d take what he could get.

They didn’t speak, not yet. They would, later, once they’d finished exploring the city for the day, once they were both back in her hotel room, slightly drunk. Then they’d talk and talk and not stop until the sun came up. And then she’d sneak out and leave. It wasn’t the first time she’d done _that_.

 

+-+-+

 

It took a whole year for another postcard to arrive, this time from Cape Town.

He was in the middle of his wedding preparations, but before his wife-to-be even had the chance to ask, he had done the math in his head: eleven hours through Johannesburg to Cape Town, and another half hour by train to the hotel whose name she’d scribbled onto the back of the card.

She was waiting for him, standing on the hotel’s porch in a figure-hugging dress that was as white as the clouds above them. For a minute, he forgot everything else, and clung to her like a drowning man might cling to a lifeline.

They spent three days and two nights talking, and he instinctively knew when it was time to say goodbye. Except that they _didn’t_ , never had, and probably never would.

In the middle of a busy street, on a corner brimming with people, she pulled her bright blue scarf more tightly around herself, clearly getting ready to vanish into the crowd.

“Where will I see you again?” (Not _when_ , that had always been beside the point between the two of them.)

“Who knows,” she replied with a smile, and added, “Never twice in the same city.”

 

+-+-+

 

The third one was from Copenhagen.

This time, he was able to pass it off as a business trip, because the Copenhagen gallery where some of the paintings his company had insured were being shown to the public really did need inspecting. (No, _really_.)

He found her in a small café, quietly sipping tea from a too-large mug. She looked different than he remembered, a small scar trailing up her neck, partly hidden by the hair she was growing out now. But it wasn’t just her skin that had been blemished; she also seemed broken in other ways. He didn’t ask any questions, didn’t make her tell what had happened. Either she would do it in her own time, or she wouldn’t, and he’d be fine with that, too.

When he woke up the following morning, he heard her on the phone, talking to someone in a language he didn’t understand. She was already standing up, almost fully dressed, her suitcase by the door. He still didn’t ask. Instead, he only said, once she’d hung up, “Never twice…”

“…in the same city,” she completed the sentence with a laugh, and left the room, the heels of her shoes echoing in the empty hallway of the hotel long after she was gone.

 

+-+-+

 

It became a routine after that; she’d sent a postcard from anywhere in the world, and he’d be at her side within twenty-four hours. There was Milan, Buenos Aires, Trondheim, Singapore. Sometimes they spent all day inside a shabby hotel room, just _talking_ , and it hardly ever got farther than that. (Except for once, when he couldn’t control his wandering hands, and a second time, when she got tipsy enough to push him against the wall the minute they closed the door.) And on other days, they went outside, showed each other cities they’d been in before, or explored new places together. No matter what they did, though, she always stayed true to her promise; they never met twice in the same city.

They grew old like this, two people who could have become more, could have become one, at some point in their lives, if they’d taken a different path at one of the many turns. Or who could have never met at all.

 

+-+-+

 

Many years later, when he’d long since resigned himself to the fact that he’d never have a _normal_ life, yet another postcard reached him, this time from England. Soon after, he was walking along a lone pier with her, leaning on a cane, both of them slightly grey around the temples. The December air was cold, a stark contrast to the comfortable silence between them.

“And if, at some point, we had decided to stop this?” he asked softly.

“Hmm?” she hummed in reply.

“Don’t you think it might have been better?”

There was something in her voice he’d never heard before when she said, “Do you honestly think so?”

After a minute, he shook his head, and they just kept on walking.

**Author's Note:**

> Heavily inspired by [this](http://www.repubblica.it/speciale/sanvalentino2002/romagnoli/romagnoli.html).


End file.
